


a raised knife

by havenborn (sinistra_blache)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brace For Angst, Gen, Noctis gets raised by Ardyn, Uncle Ardyn Izunia, he'll meet the bros eventually probably, in which Ardyn is less of the Accursed and more of the Accursed Pain In My Behind, playing with destiny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistra_blache/pseuds/havenborn
Summary: “It has been reported to me that you were named Noctis,” he spoke. “Noctis Lucis Caelum. How grand your name is, young prince. How little you know that. How short your time will be, and an honest pity that you will never know the quiet beauty of your name.”And there, sleeping, was his demise. His brows furrowed, Ardyn reached into the crib and, as a single finger rested against the fat of the prince’s cheek, the boy’s eyes opened. A month old and looking up at Ardyn with such eyes.Ardyn, nor his bloody plan, hadn't a chance.
Comments: 71
Kudos: 220
Collections: FFXV Kinkmeme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a ffxv-kinkmeme prompt from like a year ago. It was a one-shot then but, lo and behold, the 'rona hit and now I'm jobless with all this writing time on my hands. I'll be adding to this with different POVs going forward. 
> 
> The prompt: https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5690.html?thread=11586106#cmt11586106

One would think that all-knowing gods would be able to tell when someone lies to them. For all that Ardyn, a mortal-now-monster, knows? Perhaps this was the Draconian’s plan all along; to have Ardyn play a pantomime of acceptance and sacrifice. Perhaps he knew how much his words, his damned offer, would sting against Ardyn’s skin and force his hand. 

All-knowing gods, playing chess with the lives and emotions of men. By his own words, Bahamut had been keeping Ardyn tucked away for millennia as a secret weapon against the Scourge. Very convenient, Ardyn had to say. He just _happened_ to have foreseen this long ago, and just so _happened_ to have orchestrated the betrayal and pain and suffering that Ardyn had gone through, and just so _happened_ to know of the future birth of the so-called King of Light.

Ah, but how clever the Draconian was if he indeed had any knowledge of what his words would do to Ardyn’s mind. Ardyn was consumed by the idea of this child. The would-be prince of Lucis, not yet born, invaded Ardyn’s every thought or plan for the future.

So he did what any sane sacrificial lamb would do in his situation; he chose to take away the blade that would spill his blood on the gods’ altar.

Ardyn used his position as Chancellor to monitor all news and missives from Lucis. He knew when King Regis recovered from his injuries. He knew when Regis and his sharp-looking wife, Aulea, briefly disappeared from the public eye only to reemerge with news of pregnancy. Ardyn knew before the subjects of Lucis when the boy was born, thanks to the Niflheimir spies dotted around the palace — though, of course, they didn’t last long once the boy was brought back to the palace.

The royal blood of Lucis, as Ardyn knew well, could be cruel when it came to protecting its throne. How they treated the spies that they found within their walls showed that cruelty to those who had not previously learned such a lesson.

It was not long after he received news of the child’s birth that Ardyn made yet another trip to Lucis. It was arduous. It had been so before — trains and cars and people and the smell of all the people travelling for days, weeks, beside him. The swaths of those displaced by war and weather, in search of something better. Pitiful, Ardyn thought, that no-one on either side of this ridiculous war had leaders who truly cared for them. Still, that was not his concern any longer.

Ardyn cared only about the boy. He cared only about what he represented.

It was only when he landed within Lucian territory that Ardyn learned that Queen Aulea had died. Complications, someone whispered as though just by a single word everyone listening would know what they meant. Ardyn could only wonder if that would help or hinder his plan. A grieving father would no doubt be more vigilant, but funerals wreaked havoc on security no matter where they took place.

He should not have worried, of course. One of King Regis’ trusted guards turned a corner and did not turn back. Ardyn stepped from the shadows with the guard’s face and ID, which was enough to get him through all levels of the palace without a single person batting an eyelid. Ardyn would have been deeply disappointed, even worried at the ease at which his plan went ahead, but he was singularly minded.

So close now. So close to taking that dagger with which the gods hoped to end him. So close to dashing their dreams to the ground as they had done with all of his.

The Prince’s nursery was lavish. Too lavish, truth be told, for an infant. The boy was a month old and living in luxury that most people couldn’t hope to dream about in this world. Such was Somnus’ legacy; gross abuse of power and wealth in the face of the true needs of Eos.

There was no nurse in the room. There was no guard, as Ardyn and his borrowed visage had dismissed the one standing at the door. It was him and his last enemy, Ardyn and the child, in a room draped in Lucian black and cold with loneliness. A single chair sat by the crib; no doubt left by the boy’s mother. How terribly sad.

Ardyn sat in it. “It has been reported to me that you were named Noctis,” he spoke, letting his glamor fall from him but looking still around the room. “Noctis Lucis Caelum. How grand your name is, young prince. How little you know that. How short your time will be, and an honest pity that you will never know the quiet beauty of your name.” Ardyn smiled then, to himself if not the child, and looked into the crib.

And there, sleeping, was his demise. The dagger fussed, but still slept—lulled, no doubt, by the sound of another being in the room with him after being alone for goodness knows how long. So much for the mourning king’s vigilance. His brows furrowed, Ardyn reached into the crib and, as a single finger rested against the fat of the prince’s cheek, the boy’s eyes opened. A month old and looking up at Ardyn with such eyes.

He studied his dagger. The dagger studied him back. As Ardyn took in all the dark hair and blue eyes and soft noises, the infant’s eyes flicked from feature to feature on Ardyn’s own face. It was only a moment between them but Ardyn’s sense of time was shot. It felt like an age. Frozen, Ardyn waited for the moment to pass and, when it did, the prince settled against Ardyn’s hand to fall back asleep.

The change in plan was sudden, a surprise even to Ardyn. He took all that he could see in the room that could be useful. Baby things. Clothes. Bottles. A small blue toy of an old god that sat in the crib with the child, as it made Ardyn laugh. A bag to fit it all in. 

Noctis sat wrapped up within Ardyn’s coat as they stole out of the window and down to the streets. He was a shadow with a grim plan when he went in, now a whisper in the night with the hope of the gods resting warmly against his heart. Neither of them would be tools at the disposal of capricious astrals. Ardyn would see to that.

#

Noctis makes it to six months and he warps by accident into Ardyn’s arms. They’re alone in the wilderness at the time so no-one sees him, by some grace left in the stars, and Ardyn holds him closely as he whispers words of praise. _Such a smart child_. _Such a talented boy_. Noctis laughs his baby laugh.

Noctis is one and Ardyn calls forth toys for him in dramatic bursts of red and pink. He is more amused by the magic than with the toys.

Noctis is three, and he has a fondness for stories. He thinks that his uncle ‘sounds funny’ and he claps his little hands whenever Ardyn plays a different character and does a silly voice.

Noctis is five and it is his birthday. As a gift, Ardyn sits him down and promises to tell the truth. He tells Noctis that he might not always like the truths that he hears, but Ardyn will never lie to him. They will not become a family of lies. Noctis is five and he nods so seriously that Ardyn knows that he will be held to his words.

Noctis is eight years old and he plays with other children as they pass through towns. The other children love him, and are always sad when he tells them that he has to leave. He never seems upset. _"I don’t need them, Uncle Ardyn."_

Noctis is ten and he asks about his mother. Ardyn, who has kept his word until now, thinks about lying to the boy but can’t bring himself to do it. He tells Noctis everything he knows about his sharp-faced mother, and guesses at how much she must have loved him. To know Noctis is to love him. Noctis smiles, and it’s a sad one, but he still smiles.

Noctis is 12 and in Ardyn’s time he would soon be considered a man. In the small cabin that they found in the Galahdian wilds, Noctis sits at the table and flips through a book that they had picked up in the last town. It claims to be a Detailed History of Lucis and Ardyn laughed at it so heartily that Noctis was instantly intrigued by it. He asks Ardyn to tell stories again, this time with the intelligence of a-boy-nearly-a-man. Ardyn tells him about their family, their legacy, their prophecies, and the gods who seek to bind them. Ardyn still does the voices.

Noctis is 14 years old and he starts to lose the softness in his features. Sometimes when Ardyn looks at him he can only see Somnus. He recognizes, now, how sharp the dagger would have been had he played by the rules. How sadistically the gods had planned his end. He understands that they wanted him only to hate this King of Light and to see nothing more of him than the means to an ultimate end.

#

“Uncle. Wake up,” Noctis kicks Ardyn’s foot to rouse him out of bed. “You promised me training and fishing today. So far I don’t see either of those things happening.” 

“Twice damn your name,” Ardyn grumbles but he rolls out of his simple but comfortable bed. He cracks an eye to regard his nephew, as that is what Noctis has become. Ardyn takes stock, when he remembers, and stops to regard the progress that Noctis has made as a person. If Ardyn didn’t do that then everything would flit by him too quickly and before he knew it he would be standing beside a fully grown man. Time is something other people talk about as it slips from Ardyn’s fingers like silk.

Noctis is 17 years old, and a cocksure pain in Ardyn’s behind. He stands with his hand resting on his hip, expectant and unsympathetic, while Ardyn makes a fuss about having to get up and dressed. Each day that passes sees Noctis more and more like Somnus both in looks and manner but, with each day that passes, Ardyn grows fond of the similarities.

There was a time, so long ago, that he and his brother were close. The memories were faint and they were faint even before Ardyn’s betrayal, but he knows that there were happy days in their upbringing. Once upon a time, as he would say to Noctis when telling a tale, there was peace.

“Dearest Noctis, it is so unlike you to be awake and willing to leave our home when the sun has just risen,” Ardyn says as he pulls on the many layers needed to protect him from the burn of the day. “Are you well?”

“Don’t start,” Noctis chides, batting away Ardyn’s hand as he comes closer to check the boy’s temperature. “I didn’t sleep well and I want to hold you to your promises. You said training and—”

“Fishing, yes. I remember vividly and I live to regret my words.”

Though he feels the pricks against the exposed skin of his face, the morning sun is gentle otherwise and the smell of dew on the air is pleasant. Ardyn and Noctis make their way from their home, going deeper into the thicket and swamp, in search of things to fight. Truth be told, there’s very little else that Ardyn can teach Noctis now. His form is perfect, and he was always very quick to master the magic of their bloodline. Even as a baby Noctis had talent.

When they spy a school of sahagin, Ardyn instructs Noctis to attack and not to take too long in dispatching them. The boy doesn’t even think about asking Ardyn to join him, not like he used to do when he was younger, and instead launches himself at his prey in shards of burning blue and white.

The ferocity of Noctis’ family, of Somnus’ line in particular, is obvious when Noctis fights. His movements sure and quick—not cruel, but purposeful. He knows how to kill quickly. Though Ardyn taught him these things, he does not recall the lessons being difficult for Noctis to grasp. Ardyn would be worried, even scared for his eventual safety, if it weren’t for knowing the quality of the boy’s character.

Had Noctis grown into the King of Light instead of being torn away from his home by a vengeful monster, he would have ruled kindly and he would have been adored by his public. Ardyn is sure of that. Noctis knew no other way to be and, surely, Ardyn never taught him how to be kind. There was too little of that left within Ardyn’s bones to pass on to another.

“Clean form, good arcs, and you are getting quicker getting from one place to another,” Ardyn comments once Noctis’ blade sinks into the last of the sahagin. “Child, you’re advancing far too quickly. Soon I’ll have to find a way for you to have a proper sword at your side.”

“I think I’m okay with this for now,” Noctis replies reasonably, banishing his barely acceptable sword to his armiger with a delicate flick of the wrist. Ardyn, still thinking like a teacher, nods approvingly at that too. Noctis grins at him. “You don’t have to go stealing from some poor Crown City blacksmith.”

“You know, I don’t think they exist any longer,” Ardyn continues the conversation, beckoning Noctis to keep moving. They have a fishing spot nearby that has been good to them lately, and that’s their goal. Fishing, for Noctis, is always the end goal. “But you must have a sword that does you justice. You’re of royal blood and no matter what that means, or what you’re told it means, you’re still entitled to a decent weapon at your call.”

“Only you care about that kind of thing, Uncle,” Noctis dismisses, his face brightening as they near the pool where the fish are already jumping. “Are we doing this already? No more training.”

“I told you. You’re advancing too quickly. I have little more to teach you.”

“But I’m not half as good as you are,” Noctis complains. The frown on his face is sudden and close to comical. Ardyn nearly expects him to stamp his princely foot at him.

“No,” Ardyn bows smoothly with a smile. “And you should not hold yourself to that very high standard, Noctis. Many kings before you have done so and it did not go well for them in the end.”

“You monster,” Noctis declares and Ardyn laughs with him.

No lies in this family, after all.


	2. Regis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis's story, and a continuation.

Mourning rolled onto mourning. 

It felt like only a moment passed between losing Aulea and losing Noctis. In some way it was easier to lose Aulea; at least then there was no guilt, there were no questions. There was a body to bury. Noctis simply disappeared while Regis was looking another way. 

He was no fool. He didn’t need security camera footage nor the aptitude for magic to know what had happened. The Adagium had come in plain sight, as he had before, and he had taken Noctis away. He might as well have killed Regis on that fateful Founder’s Day. What use was his life, or his kingdom, or anything at all, if everything that Regis had ever cared about was gone from him?

Clarus tried, of course, to comfort his friend and his king. That first year after the disappearance, Clarus made the mistake of not letting Regis see or talk to Gladiolus. He must have thought, and reasonably enough, that seeing Clarus’s boy healthy and happy would have torn Regis to shreds. In truth, Regis himself wondered if he would be glad to see his godson or if it would only compound his grief. 

Obviously they had worried in vain and, indeed, Regis only felt better the more time he spent with Gladiolus. He was a bright child, and he knew that something terrible had happened to Regis. Clarus hadn’t given him too many details, and the boy never asked any questions, but there was a gentleness in his actions whenever Regis came to visit. 

Visits happened more and more during the second year following the disappearance. 

It was mostly to avoid actual responsibility, of course. The only people who had been able to hold Regis to any of his royal duties were his father and his wife, and both of them were gone. Regis fulfilled his duties as much as was necessary and no more; he was much more interested in getting to know Clarus’s family and how they lived. They never seemed put-out to have him there, though Regis was careful never to overstay his welcome. Who, after all, would kick out a king in mourning?

By the third year, Regis had begun to feel something closer to normal. Sometimes when he walked down the hall of portraits, when he saw that one portrait done as a tribute to his family, with Aulea’s clever eyes and Noctis’s tiny hands… Sometimes, Regis would have bad days. But they were becoming less of the norm. He felt like himself. 

#

Regis sat in the throne, as he was supposed to do during the day, presiding over court. There was little to be done at times like this. Very few people came to him officially like this, as they had in the old days of Lucis and her Kings, but tradition was increasingly something that he held onto if he could have nothing else. 

It was then when the Crystal spoke to him. 

The dull throb of words, the deep ache within his bones, could only mean one thing: it was the word of the gods. Specifically, always so specifically, the Draconian spoke to him. 

_King Regis Lucis Caelum._

Regis closed his eyes against the pain and, when he opened them once more, he was — nowhere. Standing on nothing. Floating within nothing. And, before him, Bahamut looked upon him. 

How to address a god? 

“My Lord,” Regis hazarded and it seemed to be just fine since he was not struck down by lightning — oh, but that would not be the Draconian’s style. No, were he displeased with Regis then a sword would come to cut him down. “You call on me?”

_Indeed, Father of Kings._

Regis furrowed his brow, unused to such a title. He said nothing. Only fools interrupt the gods, as his father had told him long ago. Regis had thought it was a joke at the time. 

_I bring you news of your son,_ Bahamut thundered without sound. He gave Regis no time to brace between statements, either. _He is alive, and he must be found._

“My — my son? Noctis lives?” Regis stepped forward, somehow, and forgot all propriety. “How could that be? There were teams upon teams of men sent to find him and…” He didn’t say who took his son. He didn’t have to. If Regis could guess then surely the Six knew who to blame. “They found nothing. No-one. Not even a scrap of fabric.” 

_As the Adagium would have wanted, yes. Yet, hear me; your son lives, as he should until the time is right._

Regis wanted to ask where Noctis is. He wanted to know so badly where his son was taken and what that monster was doing to him. Why had the Adagium kept Noctis alive, hidden away from his only family and his home. But — 

“What does that mean, My Lord? ‘Until the time is right’?” Regis was nowhere, floating and standing on nothing, and his stomach still dropped to his feet. His heart grew cold. He hoped that his instincts were soured by grief and loss, that he expected pain only because he had known it for so long. 

_Do you not know already, Father of Kings? Tell me why such a creature of darkness, immortal rage made manifest, would take away a mere babe from the arms of his mourning father?_

“Cruelty?” Regis attempted to answer, a feeble joke, but the Draconian was right; in his heart, he knew the answer. His instincts had been right. He shook his head against it all, still. “Please. Choose another, in another time. Not Noctis. Please.” Regis was nowhere. He was floating and then kneeling on nothing, begging. He had no more tears left to shed but his breath came out of him sickly and jagged. 

_Noctis Lucis Caelum is the Chosen King of Light, and he will cleanse this star of its scourge._

In his mind’s eye Regis saw himself — no, he saw Noctis, but a man. He sat athrone, and he seemed tired. Regis couldn’t breathe.

_Only through sacrifice can there be peace._

One after another, the Royal Arms drive into Noctis. Regis’s own sword pinned Noctis to the throne. 

He would be sick. He could feel it. He would vomit there. Nowhere, surrounded by nothing. 

_Fate will not be denied, Father of Kings._

#

Regis awoke still sitting on his throne and still surrounded by his council, but he was covered in a cold sweat. His distress must have shown plainly on his face and Clarus spoke before anyone of the Council noticed anything. 

“My King. Is something wrong?” Clarus said from his perch and, without waiting for a response, he broke decorum instantly and made his way down to the throne. Regis waited, using the time to catch his breath. To digest what knowledge had been given to him. Before long, Clarus stood beside him. His large, comforting hand on Regis’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“Noctis lives,” Regis told him in a whisper. He could tell just how insane his expression must have looked because Clarus’s usual stoic self gasped. “The Crystal — the Astrals —” Regis shook his head and stood, now addressing the whole throne room. “I have been given a vision from the Crystal. My son lives. My son, your prince, lives and he is—” 

Silence. Regis couldn’t say it right away. But he had to. 

“He is the Chosen King of Light.” 

#

The search was country-wide. Towns and villages and hamlets were suddenly remembered by the nobles who ran them from the Citadel and they were told of the situation. No-one questioned their king, though secretly Regis thought that perhaps they should have. He sounded like a man insane with grief. Perhaps that was so, but that never made any of his words any less true. 

His Council were instructed to keep the details of Noctis’s fate to themselves. If news got out about who and what Noctis was then it would no doubt put him in more danger than he already was. More danger than Regis imagined him to be in, at any rate. 

He sent his Glaives on missions and skirmishes across the country and beyond. Since the prince’s disappearance, the war between Lucis and Niflheim seemed distant even to warmongering generals by his side. Yet now he had to know if his son was within Niflheim territory and he would not rest until he had answers. 

A boy was found near Gralea, by Cor of all people, but it was not Noctis. Regis tried not to feel cold inside as he gave the go-ahead for the child to be adopted into a Lucian family. He did not succeed in killing off that icy feeling within his bones. 

Clarus’s wife gave birth to another child, this time a girl, and there was a bright spot in all their lives until she was taken by the same disease that had taken Aulea. Grief, the deep loss of their wives, their lovers, the mothers of their children, was something that Regis and Clarus shared now. 

Gladiolus stayed with Regis on the night that his mother died. Regis held the boy as he hoped he could have held Noctis. Gladiolus never cried, but he knew. The poor child knew. 

Years went by and Regis never stopped the search. He watched Gladiolus and Iris both grow into children, teenagers. And still, he knew, somewhere out there his own son was growing up without him. He tried to imagine what Noctis might look like. He tried to stop himself from imagining it, too, when it became difficult for him. 

He thought of what his son must think of him, if he thinks of him. Did Noctis know who he was? 

Years and years, and no word. Until one rainy day when he received a letter from Tenebrae, of all places. He had once been close friends with Sylva but after the quiet annexing of her land to Niflheim they had fallen out of contact. It was heartening, somehow, to see the sigil of the Nox Fleurets arrive on his desk that day. 

He should have known better. 

It was, in fact, a letter from Sylva’s young daughter. She was a little older than Noctis would be — and that was how Regis had taken to thinking of young people around him. How old they were in relation to Noctis. Lunafreya’s delicate penmanship resembled her mother’s, but her words were too sombre to be Sylva’s. 

She wrote of dreams that she had since her mother’s passing. She wrote of her suspicions that Niflheim had found a way to kill her mother in an attempt to control the next Oracle; herself. She wrote of the kind words that her mother had for Regis up until her death. She wrote of the now old alliance between Lucis and Tenebrae. She spoke of the starvation of her people. She spoke of the visions that the Astrals had given her — and she wrote of Noctis. 

She had dreamed of Noctis. Regis clutched the paper in his hands. She had dreamed of where he was. She had dreamed of who he was with. 

She said that he had clever blue eyes and dark hair. That he smiled often. She wrote, bless her, that she wanted to help to find him and bring him back home for she knew the part he must play in the salvation of their world. 

So much maturity in such a young person. So much hope and loss in one letter. 

Regis wrote back to her as soon as he could find a pen. 

#

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Clarus, I am a king,” Regis said as he hobbled down the hallway. How he hated this injury and the man who injured him. “And, as a king, I am always serious about everything.” 

Clarus wasn’t a man who smiled with his mouth, but instead with his eyes. He was not smiling with his eyes after that comment. “Joke if you must, Regis, but you have to see how crazy this looks.”

“Absolutely I do, yes,” Regis nodded. “And I realise that it is a lot to ask of you, your men, and my country. But we have had no actual leads since the Draconian spoke years ago.” 

“Can we trust the Draconian?”

Regis sighed. “Clarus, please. Do my heart a favor and never ask that question aloud in my presence again,” he pleaded quietly. “I fear the power that the Master of Swords has over my life, and the life of my son. I will not anger him if I can help it, and that means that I would prefer it if you avoided such accusations.” 

“Understood,” Clarus replied with a frown. He never liked it when they talked about the Six and Regis’s tie to them. They walked further, in silence, until they were standing outside the Glaive training grounds. “Drautos will not be pleased about another mission so soon after the last.” 

“I will deal with Drautos,” Regis waved his hand dismissively. “We only need a few good soldiers with us. From what Lady Lunafreya said, it seems as though there is no security where we’re going; only obscurity. And I know that there are a number of Galahdian soldiers within my Glaives. I will need to rely on their knowledge to find Noctis.”

“Of course,” Clarus nodded — and Regis decided to take the plunge on his next request. 

“I would like to have Gladiolus with us, too.” 

Clarus didn’t answer straight away but Regis saw how his jaw worked, stressed and silent. His Shield was not a man who kept himself to himself, at least not around Regis, but he certainly chose his words carefully. 

“I can tell that there is no talking you out of that. Very well. I’m coming with you,” Clarus said firmly, unhappily. “I was not there the first time that he attacked and for that, I have never forgiven myself, and I will not miss my son’s first official mission.” 

“I would have it no other way, my friend,” Regis said, putting his hand on Clarus’s arm before setting off to gather up the necessary troops. A strike team. Within the week, Regis would see Noctis again. 

Nothing would stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to formally apologise to anyone who thought that this story was going to be fluff after reading the first chapter.


	3. Gladio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gladiolus grew up knowing that he was the last of a shattered legacy.

Gladio was around four years old when he found out about his family’s destiny. He was a little older than that when he figured out that he wasn’t going to be part of it. 

Everyone knew the story of the Stolen Prince. Gladio had learned about it from his mother first, then his father and then, finally, from the king himself. Gladio had never asked about the Stolen Prince but he had been told. When he figured out why he wouldn’t be part of his family’s history, he figured out why everyone had told him about that Prince so often. 

When his mother died Gladio wished that he would be stolen, too. He was too old to really believe that it would happen, but when he was a little kid he had thought that when a mother died from giving birth then her baby would be stolen. If anyone tried to come for Iris then Gladio would have fought them, and he would offer himself in her stead. Maybe, he thought, if someone came to take one of them away then they would take him to wherever the Stolen Prince was. 

He didn’t care about the Prince. He cared about his family’s destiny and how he had, somehow, become the end of it. Gladio knew that without that Prince there was no real way of making his father proud of him. All of their family’s worth was tied to the Crown. 

The King was Gladio’s godfather because he and Gladio’s dad had always been friends. Once, when he was very drunk and very sad, the King told Gladio that if the Prince hadn’t been stolen then Gladio would have grown up with him. They would have been brothers. Friends. That Gladio had been robbed as much as the King himself had been robbed. 

Gladio had found it hard to agree with that since he had never met the Prince and he didn’t really like babies anyway. He probably wouldn’t have been friends with the Prince until he was older. He didn’t tell the King that. 

He did like being a brother, though. He loved Iris. Even when she was being a brat and crying a lot, he loved her. He would help Jared around the house, joining him in cleaning and feeding and changing Iris when she was a baby. When she got older, Gladio would play and train with her. He loved her even after that day she disappeared and got lost after chasing a cat. He loved her even though Gladio got into the worst trouble for letting her out of his sight that day. He loved her when she climbed into his bed after a bad dream. He loved her when she asked about their mom, a tiny voice admitting that she didn’t want to make their dad sad by bringing it up. 

Their dad was always busy at work with the King. That was part of his destiny, his oath. Gladio grew to enjoy that he didn’t have a destiny and that he wasn’t too far from Iris. He’d always be there, he promised her once. He had meant it. 

Gladio was 12 when he was told that his father had been so busy for so long because the Stolen Prince was _somewhere_ and the whole country was looking for him. His father told him, quiet and serious and proud, because it meant that Gladio could still live up to his family name, and their purpose. He could still be a Shield, one day, and that his training could take the next step as they searched. 

And they searched for years. 

#

“Gladiolus, the king wants to see you,” a Crownsguard announced in the middle of his training. Which one was that? Damn, Gladio seriously needed to learn these names. Timore? Lacertus? Shit. 

“Thanks, man,” he answered, bowing to his instructor and grabbing a towel on the way out. He wouldn’t have enough time to shower and change, but he should at least towel off whatever sweat he’s managed to cover himself in and find a clean shirt. 

He was in the King’s unofficial office in about twenty minutes after he was summoned. Standing in front of the desk, in front of the King, Gladio snapped a smart salute and bowed. He didn’t greet the King — he wasn’t supposed to do that. It was against protocol to greet the King verbally or even look at him directly before being addressed. Which, in his humble opinion, was fucked up. But here they were.

“Gladio,” King Regis smiled as Gladio carefully looked up from his salute. “Stop that. There’s no-one here. Come, sit down. I have news for you.” 

“Thanks,” Gladio answered, sitting down in one of the chairs near the desk and pulling it closer. They were always too far away from the desk to have a real conversation, and the King always told him to come closer anyway. “What do you mean, news? I didn’t know I was waiting for news.” 

“You, me, the whole country,” Regis answered. Gladio nodded. He knew that tone of voice. This was about the Prince. He steeled himself for some weirdness. It was always weird when the King started talking about the search. It was a complete obsession, and Gladio didn’t think it was all that healthy. He wouldn’t say that to the King, though, and not just because he was the King of Lucis. He just didn’t want to hurt his godfather’s feelings. Gladio didn’t like the subject, maybe, but he always wanted to be there for the King. “I believe we have the best lead we’ve ever had. The Oracle has reached out to me. And she brought news of Noctis’s whereabouts.” 

“How would she know?” 

“The Oracle is a path between us and the Gods themselves. A messenger, of sorts. And the Astrals afforded her a vision,” Regis answered like it was normal. It was for him, Gladio supposed. “And so, with her directions and help, I’ve decided on building a team to go find him. Your father will be coming with me, of course.” 

Gladio will be holding down the Amicitia fort, then. That kind of went without saying and, if Gladio were being honest with himself, he was sort of looking forward to some good old fashioned Amicitia sibling time. Since Gladio started to train for the Prince, so long ago now, he’d sort missed out on opportunities to be the big brother that Iris deserved to have. It’d be nice, and he was quietly grateful to be told.

“I’d like you to join us, Gladiolus,” Regis said, shattering Gladio’s calm. 

He blinked at his godfather. 

“Uncle Regis — my King,” Gladio corrected himself, shaking his head slowly. He was in mild shock at the suggestion — and that was mostly because it sounded like a dream come true. An official mission from the King, a chance to prove his worth? Not to mention a possible chance at saving the Prince if this was all legit. It was a real chance of showing his dad what he could do. Not that his dad necessarily _wanted_ to know about it. He had to fight through the shock, and the urge to prove himself, and be realistic. He might be the only one being realistic around here. “I don’t know if my dad is going to be okay with that. He’s always saying that my training isn’t even halfways done. Are you sure?”

“I’ve already spoken to Clarus about it,” Regis dismissed Gladio’s worry in a flash. “But you’re right; he’s not absolutely pleased with the situation. I don’t think that has anything to do with the caliber of your abilities, however, but is more than likely tied to the natural worry of a father — not to mention the details of the mission itself.” 

Gladio sat, waiting. He had a million questions and he had no way of asking them that didn’t make him sound like he thought that the King was crazy. So he sat, and he waited. 

“Do you know how Noctis was taken from us, Gladio?” 

Alright, so they were starting at peak crazytown. “I don’t know the official response,” he admitted. “But the rumor is that someone broke into the Citadel and stole him. Another rumor was that is was a monster.” 

“Indeed, he is a monster,” Regis said darkly, a shadow passing over his features. “And there is no official response for you to know, Gladiolus. Don’t feel bad about that. I never gave the press any details, and I barely spoke to anyone but your father about the incident. Of course, through his oath as my Shield, he was sworn to secrecy.” Gladio nodded. He didn’t care about his father and the King keeping things from him. What were they going to do? Tell him sensitive information that could get him killed? That sounded dumb. They were smarter than that, and much more professional. 

King Regis watched Gladio for a moment. It felt like those times when he would come to Gladio’s house to drink with his father, right before he’d tell Gladio some sad story. This time, though, he was sober. He was clear-eyed. He was serious. 

“I’m going to let you in on a family secret. For you are family, and I don’t want you to ever doubt that. However, as you must realize by now, family secrets are rarely fun to know. This will not be a soothing tale,” a final warning from his King, from his uncle. 

“I’m honored to be told, then,” Gladio answered, sitting up straight and speaking formally. Lucian Royalty family secrets, huh? This was supposed to be a normal day of routine training and studying. So much for that. 

#

The tale of the Adagium was _wild_. Gladio didn’t know what to do with that kind of information. If it weren’t for all the texts and historical records that King Regis pulled out as he talked to Gladiolus he would have dismissed it as more crazy-talk. 

It was real, though. The man was real. King Regis told him about the Founder’s Day attack, the real story about it. How it wasn’t just Niflheim attacking the city. How he had gotten his leg injured for good by the Adagium himself. How he had been brought back to life by the power of Kings, and how he had barely been coherent when Gladio’s dad found him after the fight. 

It was the Adagium who had stolen the Prince, Uncle Regis said, and he was just out there in the Galahdian wilds playing happy families with him. That might have been the craziest part of it, in Gladio’s opinion, right up until King Regis started to talk about who Prince Noctis really was. What he meant to the kingdom, and the world.

What the Astrals had named him. 

Well, shit. No wonder his dad had been so crazy about making sure Gladio trained so hard until they found the Prince. He was going to be the Shield to the King of Light. 

No pressure. 

#

Their team consists of King Regis, Gladio’s father, three hand-chosen Glaives and Gladiolus. Cor Leonis, _the_ Cor Leonis, drove them out there and then was told to wait my the car. Gladio’s still grappling with that decision as they wade through the murk of the Galahdian swamp. 

“Kinda nice to be home,” one of the Glaives says, and the other two chuckle. 

A mosquito zips in to land on Gladio’s neck and he has to grit his teeth; there’s no way he’ll be accused of being unprofessional on his first mission out with his dad, but he really wants to insult this dump of a place. It’s too hot. It’s too wet. The cockatrices are watching them from ten feet away and everyone’s just pretending like it’s not happening. There are all kinds of pools that look like puddles seconds before you fall waist-deep in murkwater. Gladio hates it here. 

The Glaives look damn close to peaceful and he thinks he might hate them, too. 

“How far do we have to hike?” he asks, hoping to hell that this is going to be a one-day mission in the swamp. Took them two days to drive out, and all of them are carrying emergency camping supplies, but maybe if they’re lucky…

“There’s no way of being 100% sure,” King Regis answers from up ahead. “The Oracle, Lady Lunafreya, gave us a location approximation and we parked as close as we safely could. We could find him, or something relevant, today. It could take us a week. But we will find him, Gladiolus.” 

There was no talking to the King when he was like this. Gladio knew that and, judging from the look that gets shot back to him as they hike, his father knew it too. 

So Gladio was just making good with the fact that they were in it for the long haul as the night started to settle and the real bastards of bugs started to come out to play. The good-looking Glaive says something about finding a camping spot that might work for them, and Gladio had his eyes open. 

Then his father raises his hand in silent command. They all freeze where they stand. Clarus kneels, no care for the mud, and they all follow suit. Gladio squints, looking ahead at the threat. Expecting a daemon as the night falls. Expecting anything than what he sees but, really, after the story that King Regis had told him he should have known better. 

It’s a hut. A simple homestead. Smoke puffs gently out of the tiny chimney and into the night sky. There’s a small garden by the door. Gladio can just about see figures moving inside but he can’t see their faces. One’s tall, and a man, and the other could be anyone. He can’t tell a damn thing. 

“Ready yourselves,” the King commands softly. “This will not be an easy fight.” 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends the work that I had already written and just needed some editing. I have another two chapters partially written, and a few more planned after that for the story end. I'll update. Don't worry. It just won't happen as quickly as it had been up until now.   
> Thanks for your patience, and thank you to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos. I'm glad you're all enjoying this.


	4. Ardyn

It’s another normal evening. Nothing about it feels off or foul, and there is no reason for either Ardyn or Noctis to feel on edge. In fact, Ardyn is doing his level best at keeping Noctis entertained with his usual tactic; with stories of the past. People, places and things long since gone.

The stories have stopped making Ardyn feel angry, and he’s beyond sadness. It could be the passage of time that has led him to move on in such a manner, but he suspects it’s more likely due to Noctis and the boy’s natural curiosity, his demand for more stories and details. It’s a kind of catharsis — a panacea made even more potent through their pact of truth. Ardyn is honor-bound to tell Noctis what actually happened back then no matter how badly he wishes to change the endings. Many would scoff at the worth of Ardyn’s honor, and yet here he found himself. A man of honor and truth.

Honor or no, sometimes he changes the endings to amuse himself, but only after he’s told Noctis the true story. Noctis, kind child that he is, indulges his awful uncle’s whims. Laughs at the jokes. Takes part in insulting Somnus, even, especially when Ardyn is in a particularly grim mood. Another balm for the soul.

That night he’s telling Noctis about Aera, mostly because Noctis is of an age now that such things matter and, were he left to grow up to be the Prince the damnable gods wanted him to be, no doubt Noctis would already be betrothed. Ardyn was once a romantic and, though his heart has surely hardened beyond repair by now, he can’t help but wonder what it might have looked like for either of them. A wedding, a happy wife, a calm kingdom. A family ahead of them. But Ardyn only lingers there for a moment. Neither of them will ever have such things.

He notes that Noctis doesn’t really seem that concerned with the matter, either. He asks about why his uncle hadn’t talked about Aera in such detail before. A fair question. Ardyn deftly and consciously avoids it. Noctis lets him.

It’s just another normal evening. Everything is calm. There’s a snap — a cockatrice in the throes of a mating dance, perhaps — but no other sound to be heard.

It’s not the sound that sets him on edge, but Ardyn’s mood creeps from nostalgic to paranoid all the same. A pit in his stomach. A cloud over his proverbial parade. He’s old enough, twisted enough inside, to know that he must always trust his instincts when the atmosphere shifts so dramatically.

He stands and looks out of the window into the dark of the swamp.

“Uncle?” Noctis prompts, a smile still lingering on his face from the last impression of his line’s founder. The smile slips once he realizes that Ardyn is looking out into the dark, searching for something. He might not have the same kind of paranoid instinct as Ardyn but he knows when to be worried.

He rises out of sitting but does not stand fully. He knows the drill.

“A fight?” Noctis asks, whispers, and sighs when Ardyn nods. “We could escape through the back.”

“I assure you, my boy, that anyone who could get this close without alerting me has already secured the back door,” Ardyn murmurs. In fact, he’s rather sure that the only person with the means to do so is coincidentally the only person who would trigger such a cosmic sense of dread just by being near. “I’m afraid that if we attempt to fight our way out of this then one of us may die. At least for a little while.”

“So this is the day we find out if I’m immortal too,” Noctis whispers, joking dryly. Ardyn chuckles softly and moves them both to the front door, walking slowly and gesturing for Noctis to stay behind him. “I was wondering when it would come up.”

“If anything, I would wager that you are supremely mortal and I would rather if we just avoided any situation that might test that theory, if you don’t mind,” Ardyn answers. He’s downplaying his appreciation of the joke, but he might be more proud of Noctis’s humor than his skill as a warrior. If not now then when were they supposed to joke? Once more, Noctis knows the drill. Ardyn has trained him well, after all. He puts his hand on the door handle and takes a breath. “Stay hidden, child. For as long as you can, stay hidden.”

“No, Uncle, wait—”

But Ardyn already has the door open, and his hands raised. There are people all around the house, circled in the swamps. Even in the dark of Galahdian swamps Ardyn can tell that the forms in the shadow are well trained. Those magic-touched Glaives that make the king’s personal army.

“Hello,” he calls out, and there’s only a little thrill of delight as he watches the shadows of the Glaives tense and go into battle stances ahead of him. Ardyn is a monster, and well he knows it, and there is a pulsing mass inside his soul that crows in victory at the tense feeling of fear on the air. The night makes the magic around him shimmer. He wonders if he’s the only one who can see it. 

He moves just slightly, reaching for his hat, and places it on his head. “It’s such a dark night,” he declares. Conversational despite the silence that answers him. “Have not one of you thought to bring a light on your trip out to our humble abode?”

“Give him back, Adagium.” A voice from the swamp. Ardyn knew it, and would have known it even without its royal Insomnian inflection. Regis Lucis Caelum himself, come to claim his blood. How amusing. Surely he doesn’t believe that he could win a fight? Perhaps that is why he brought his little army. 

He calls out to Ardyn, who fights the urge to glance behind him to Noctis. It is not the time to tend to the boy’s shocked gasp, nor to praise him for his good instincts; Noctis surely knows that the king is speaking of him, though he doesn’t yet know that it is the voice of his father. “If you give him back then we will make this a swift end for you.”

Noctis snorts softly behind Ardyn, just as Ardyn grins a little wider. They both know that there is only one end in store for Ardyn and it will not come to him at the hands of the king, nor his little army.

“You’ll have to be more specific. Who exactly are you looking for?” Ardyn singsongs back at Regis. His eyes have adjusted to the dark now, relaxing from having to strain in the light for the day, and Ardyn can see him. He’s with his brick wall of a Shield, who is physically holding Regis back, and they are joined by a handful of Glaives. So few. Clearly Regis has forgotten just how many of them Ardyn ruined on that Founder’s Day.

Perhaps it is the memory of playing with the fear and arrogance of those Glaives that makes Ardyn take a less lethal approach. Perhaps he does not want Noctis to see him as a murderer. Regardless of the reason, Ardyn finds himself not launching his body through the night to see Regis’s tiny little army turn to dust — instead, he beckons to the darkness, to the Scourge within him and Eos itself, with his hand open and fingers splayed.

Again, the Glaives tense for a split second in anticipation of their own actions. They are, however, simply not quick enough. The Scourge answers Ardyn’s call and tendrils of black reach up from the earth, grasping at the Glaives’ arms and legs. Two of them struggle; the one who hides his muscles behind a rounder figure and the other who is built like a man but has the eyes of a child. That one can’t be much older than Noctis.

Ardyn quietly hopes that he won’t have to kill that one.

One of the soldiers, the only woman there, is smart enough to try to light the darkness on fire. It won’t work, and the futility of it all pulls a grim chuckle from Ardyn’s throat, but it is a smart move. The last man is quicker than the others and he jumps, rolls, and tries to warp away.

But the night is everywhere. Ardyn is everywhere. He catches that soldier and, as a reward for his quickness, Ardyn tightens his hand into a fist — and tightens the hold on the soldier.

He’s having fun. It’s just like that Founder’s Day. The Scourge within him, the hatred that it feeds, bubbles and trembles with delight. He becomes lost in it, lost in the feeling of the Glaives struggling against his hold, lost in wondering if he could pull them down into the mud and keep them there until they are no more…

King Regis takes his chance, breaking free from his Shield with a snarled yell. 

Regis presses a dagger to Ardyn’s throat in a burst of ice-blue shards and Ardyn answers the King’s snarl with a feral smile of his own. “Good to see you again, Regis.”

“Speak again and I will slit your throat,” Regis says, voice low and full of hate. He is no longer the man that Ardyn had once fought. Grief has turned Regis into a jagged edge of a man. It suits him.

Ardyn never gets the chance to give him this compliment, however, as Noctis chooses that moment to make himself known. Idiot boy that he is. Ardyn glares at him when the answering crystal petals explode around them and Noctis raises his blade against his father.

In a different time, in a different life, Ardyn would have rejoiced at such a sight. Now he despairs. Noctis could have left while Ardyn drew everyone’s attention to the front. They would have focused on Ardyn solely, but only for as long as Noctis was not known. Too late.

“Go ahead and try it. Death will come for you before it will touch him, I can promise you that,” Noctis drawls, as cool as Ardyn was able to teach him to be. His hand does not waver, but Ardyn raised him; he can see the nerves in the sharp look in Noctis’ eyes. His first real fight against a skilled opponent, not just some bandit or hunter along the road.

Ardyn releases his hold on the Glaives, only partially because he’s distracted by the dagger at his throat and Noctis forcing the situation into an awkward one. The soldiers take their moment to get back to their feet, to assess the situation, before they move in to try to protect their king. They’re careful and not just because they came so close to being eaten by the swamp and the night at Ardyn’s behest. They are at an advantage against Regis; they can see Noctis’ face. It’s clear who Noctis is when stood right next to Regis. Father and son, with Ardyn pinned between. The Glaives inch closer, now cautious and hurt with their own weapons drawn, but the King’s Shield gestures at them to stand down.

No harm will come to Noctis, it seems, no matter the circumstance. That’s interesting.

Regis glances to Noctis’ face and gasps, then banishes his dagger. He raises hands in peace. He looks flushed, terrified — but elated. His voice loses his edge. His jagged edges gone, replaced with hope. “Noctis?” he checks, though he doesn’t need to. “You don’t know who I am?”

Ardyn hates, irrational and protective. He hates Regis, and he hates that he has a claim to Noctis’ heart as his father. Ardyn hates that he will lose yet another person important to him.

He hates that it has come to this and that he never killed Noctis in the first place to protect himself, as was his plan. He hates that he loves the prince, and he hates that he knows how much everyone else will love him. He hates it. And he hates Regis most of all for bursting into their lives and bringing reality with him.

Noctis’s eyes narrow. “I can guess who you are. Is it supposed to mean something to me?” he answers his father — and his blade stays where it is. Ardyn takes the chance to step away from Regis, to come to stand beside Noctis and the delightful threat against his own father. Perhaps Ardyn need not have worried, though that thought doesn’t make him hate Regis any less.

There is a stilled moment between them as Regis reevaluates along with Ardyn. They were both expecting Noctis to choose Regis without question.

“You’ve been poisoned by this monster, Noctis, so I can’t blame you for your feelings,” Regis replies slowly, still wise enough to stay put under Noctis’ threatening sword. He speaks softly and diplomatically and yet Ardyn can hear the desperation tremble on his voice. Regis will not leave from here without a fight or Noctis or both. “But I am your father and I am here to bring you back to the home you were stolen from.”

“Uh-huh,” Noctis says dismissively. He turns his head to the side, addressing Ardyn without taking his eyes off Regis. He’s showing off all his battle skills this evening, Ardyn notes proudly. “What do you think, monster? What’s the next step?”

“Well, if I am to be permitted another tiny drop of poison to fall upon your princely ear, I fear that our lives have been disrupted for good, dearest boy,” Ardyn responds with a smile. He notices one of the Glaives creeping closer, but he won’t be distracted again. “You will be taken, regardless of your feelings on the matter, and I will be persecuted with as much force as the Lucian crown can muster. Am I correct, Regis?”

The current King of Lucis bristles at the continued impropriety, but he answers Ardyn’s question. “Noctis is coming back with us,” he confirms — and Ardyn isn’t the only person who notices that he confirms nothing else of Ardyn’s statement, judging by Noctis’s incredulous snort.

“I’ll be coming back with you, huh? No matter what,” he says, agreeing with Ardyn’s assessment of the situation. “And this monster will be… what? Arrested? Killed? Do you grasp how stupid that is?” Noctis begins to laugh. “He stole me as a baby from right under your nose. What makes you think that you’ll be able to keep him — or kill him?”

He laughs harder.

Ardyn’s pride continues to swell, especially as he sees the look of indignation on Regis’ face.

Noctis continues. “I guess you didn’t think this through enough, but that’s okay,” he says, and he lowers his sword from the king’s neck. Neither of them can do anything to Regis, of course, and no harm will come to Noctis. The meager army that Regis brought with him could, of course, turn on Ardyn but that will just be an annoyance more than anything. Lowering his sword now, on Noctis’s own terms, is almost a power move. And who knew that he took after Ardyn after all? Wonders never cease. “Tell you what; I will come with you. You’re taking me anyway so I won’t fight. I’ll come with you to Insomnia — but only if Ardyn accompanies me. Not as a prisoner, but as…”

He looks at Ardyn for help. Ardyn shrugs as he attempts an answer. “A guest?”

“An adviser,” Noctis decides, grinning. He must know how ridiculous that is.

King Regis steps back from both of them and stares. “I can’t — I cannot allow that,” he says, fighting to stay proper in the face of the absurdity that his only son is suggesting. “He is an enemy of Lucis. A menace. He _stole_ you from your family and—”

“He is my family, as much as you are mine and he is yours.” Noctis rolls his eyes. “The only difference between him and you right now is that I know him better and he didn’t bring a strike force when he came to take me from my home.” He shoots Ardyn a quick look that holds no fondness and, truthfully, Ardyn can’t blame him. They’ve had their fights about what brought Noctis to be in his care. The choices that Ardyn has made in the past.

Sometimes Noctis calls him a monster and it’s a shared joke. Sometimes he calls Ardyn a monster and it’s a shared shame.

“I have nothing to pack,” he announces, still looking at Ardyn. “Do you, Uncle?”

“Uncle,” Regis remarks, incredulous, under his breath.

“Ah. I doubt that, even if I had any intention to pack a bag right now, the good king would allow such a whim,” Ardyn teases mildly. He has his coat. He has his weapons. He has his hat. Does he need more? Doubtful — though he will miss their collection of books. And… “There _is_ a stew bubbling. That should be tended to.”

King Regis narrows his eyes, looking so much like his son and making Ardyn hate him even harder, but he gestures to the soldier who looks about Noctis’s age. He has now crept close enough to be seen clearly. The boy doesn’t take his eyes from Noctis. He doesn’t even look at King Regis as he speaks.

“Gladiolus, you and Ulric go in there and take—” Regis sighs. Poor thing. “Take the stew from the fire. And get anything that looks like it might be important. Clothes. Documents. Use your best judgment.”

The two Glaives both snap off their salutes and go past Noctis and Ardyn carefully. The one that was named Ulric — though Ardyn has no idea if that’s a family name or not — keeps a close eye on Ardyn. He was the one who was quicker than the rest. Ardyn winks at him as he passes. But this Gladiolus continues to watch Noctis. Noctis barely registers either of them as they go by. He watches his father.

This will no doubt be the dance they sway to for the foreseeable future, but Ardyn does have to double-check. “This all implies that you agree to Noctis’s terms,” he points out to Regis.

“Yes,” Regis answers, his anger barely hidden. “That is certainly what it implies.”

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than planned for what I would think are obvious reasons. Thanks to everyone for reading!


	5. Ignis

Ignis was not an ordinary child. He was, however, not particularly extraordinary. He was smart but no genius. He was composed and neat, but he had to learn how to be those things. He wasn’t born like that. He was well-spoken and polite but his mother had often called him rude, or maybe too honest, to be considered perfect.

He studied more than other children his age. He had to. He had been drafted into a pool of hopefuls before he was born. He had been undergoing a series of interviews since he was a toddler. He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t getting ready for life as a servant to the throne.

Ignis was raised to be a chamberlain. It was all he knew.

He remembered a single time when there was a pause in his study, as though maybe he hadn’t made the cut for employment. He later learned that was about when the Prince of Lucis disappeared. His studies stopped then and rightly so; what was a servant without a lord? The lull didn’t last long enough for him to fall out of his stride, however, and Ignis decided to count that in his own favor. Obvious praise from adults and officers around him was rare, after all; no-one could be accused of having favorites. Ignis had to learn to praise himself.

A lot of fellow hopefuls didn’t get back to it when the King announced that he would still be operating as though the Prince were still alive.

Ignis’ parents paid extra for political science lessons, as well as ancient studies and further etiquette practice. They didn’t believe that the Prince was alive somewhere — nobody did — but they did see the potential for Ignis to be employed by the crown in some other fashion. So the King desired to play pretend and wanted to believe that his son was still in one piece somewhere, healthy enough to return. So be it. Ignis was told to play along for long enough to be hired, and he was happy to. His parents were very clear on what he should be doing, and why he was doing it, and how he should go about it.

By the time Ignis moved in with his uncle in Insomnia and received his official invitation to work in the Citadel, he had every move planned from there until his late forties. It was comforting, in its way. There were few surprises.

Ignis quickly became known as the one who could not be surprised. He built his career around it. People relied on him to always be prepared, to never be shaken. Ignis could not be surprised, and he loved it.

#

Ignis first met Gladiolus Amicitia when it became mandatory for even desk workers within the Citadel to have a certain amount of combat training under their belt. Ignis was told by one of the royal messengers, since he very rarely talked to the King Regis directly, that the king had decided that Ignis and Amicitia would be working together from that moment on. As they might have if the Prince had never been taken, Ignis was told.

The King was a single-minded individual. Ignis respected that, in a way. Besides, it usually caused no harm to follow the King’s orders no matter how unhinged they seemed. He always had his people’s wellbeing in mind, and he always cared deeply. King Regis won Ignis’ loyalty long ago when he chose to employ a child he knew nothing about and that loyalty was not something that would disappear just because His Majesty was perhaps a _tad_ obsessed with the past.

Not to mention that Ignis had lucked out quite significantly in being paired with Amicitia. He was not a Glaive but he was a decorated member of the Crownsguard — and he had been since Ignis’ hiring. That would be enough of a feather in Gladiolus’ cap, but he also an Amicitia. Ignis was lucky to be able to take advantage of years of Gladiolus’ family’s training whenever they ran drills together.

He did not share Gladiolus’ joy when brandishing a broadsword, nor did he have any emotional attachment to any weapon as Gladiolus did to a shield, but they made sure Ignis found his stride.

His stride, it turned out, was met with polearms and daggers. Gladiolus chuckled once and called Ignis _one graceful son-of-a-bitch_ , which was deeply flattering. That was never Ignis’ goal, nor will it be, but it was a pleasant bonus.

#

Ignis made it his mission to be useful. It was not enough to be be seen as unflappable. He needed to be invaluable.

It had been Ignis’ own fault. He corrected a member of government when he had no authority to talk. He was lucky enough to be invited by King Regis, and Ignis should have known better, but the governor of Duscae had just been _wrong_ and it seemed like no-one at the table was willing to correct him. No-one had the courage to tell him the truth.

Ignis didn’t exactly believe that he was brave, or that he had the courage to speak up. He just had no patience for anyone who was comfortable being incorrect.

He regretted his actions instantly and had every intention to apologize, but he was then encouraged to keep talking by one of the senators he was sat next to. He had graduated from small talk to official talk in a blink of an eye. That led to him getting recommendations to and from senators and councilors wanting him to handle their busy work, and all of them asking for his opinions on matters of government.

Before Ignis really knew what had happened, he was advising politicians on how to handle other politicians. He was a voice in an ear.

It all seemed… stupid. Ignis was barely out of his teens and being consulted by men and women who ran the country. Sometimes, though it was very rare, they were people who ran other countries. It was a position he didn’t dislike finding himself in, but he did think it was reckless of them. It was wildly stupid of them to give such power and importance to someone like Ignis.

He had no intention of being a bad decision, however. He made himself useful. He remained unsurprised by everything they threw at him. He became not just an asset but a desired one. His time started to get booked out between policy meetings, strategy lectures, dinners and lunches with politicians, attending to the King’s assistants, and his own training regime.

Gladio was the first person to notice Ignis’ crammed workload, and to ask him about how he felt about being at the beck and call of everyone of noble birth within the Citadel. It was as good a time as any to tell Gladio about why Ignis found himself in Insomnia anyway; he was born to be at the beck and call of someone. That was always his goal, and the goal of his family. It was unsurprising to find that Gladio sympathized; of course he did. He was in a similar situation. He was meant to be at the side of a Prince who no longer existed.

He mentioned, much to Ignis’ annoyance, that he wasn’t expected to be anyone else’s Shield. It was different for Ignis. He had to find his place. He was never going to be awarded a place within the Citadel just because he _could_ have been a servant to the Prince.

Gladio start to call him the Shadow PA. It was frustrating at first but, with time, the title grew on Ignis. He couldn’t argue with the accuracy of the jibe. It was just nice to have someone around who wasn’t just a colleague. They might have been, in a different time, but that was not to be. They were training partners, sparring buddies and, soon enough, friends. Gladio even started to invite Ignis out for drinks.

He only invited Ignis out for drinks along with the Glaives once, thankfully. After that particular fiasco it was just the odd drink and perhaps a meal after work hours. Once every few months, when things got too stressful for one of them, Gladio would demand that Ignis come over to the Amicitia household to cook. He never did that, since Ignis’ part to play was to say that Gladio hadn’t hired him like everyone else had — but they did regularly order in.

He liked to believe that Gladio seemed grateful to have someone around who didn’t treat him like a mindless oaf.

Ignis was just happy that Gladio always noticed when things were starting to get too much for Ignis at work. It saved Ignis from asking for help, which was unlikely to happen. He doubted that Gladio actually found himself too stressed, yet he pretended anyway. As Ignis understood it, that was what friends did.

#

Ignis spoke to no-one outside of the Citadel.

That wasn’t entirely accurate; Ignis had an apartment outside of the Citadel and he had to do his shopping every week so he did have to interact with other people. He just formed no meaningful relationships outside of the Citadel.

He barely formed relationships inside of the Citadel.

There had been one boy, a civilian, that Ignis saw regularly at the coffee place near his apartment. They didn’t talk much at all, just a few shared greetings, before that boy asked for Ignis’ number. It was a shock, and a pleasant one, so Ignis gave his number. He waited for a call and, when he got one, Ignis smiled for a whole day.

Some in the Citadel began to ask if he was quite well, and he was. He was.

He was until he and the boy had their first date. Ignis had tried to ask about what his date did, what he liked, whether he cooked, but all his date wanted to talk about was Ignis. It might have been nice, if the questions weren’t obviously an attempt to worm his way into Ignis’ confidence. Into the confidence of the Crown.

He had only spoke of Ignis’ duties. He only asked about who Ignis knew. He talked about how he found those Crownsguard uniforms attractive.

Ignis played along until the end of the date. He had chosen to bring them to a nice restaurant, after all, and it was the kind of place that was better with a guest. Ignis enjoyed his meal and gave his date vague answers. He even took the opportunity to enjoy the sensation of being flirted with.

He had wiped and abandoned his phone after the date. Without it, he couldn’t call Gladio to tell him that he was arriving at the Amicitia homestead but Gladio didn’t seem angry about it either way. He just brought Ignis inside and let him rant.

“We’re never going to be able to have that, Iggy,” he had said as he served Ignis another mug of tea. It was dark outside and in the rest of the house. Clarus and Iris must have been sleeping, but Ignis never asked. They sat under the lights of Gladio’s dining table and drank tea. “The sooner we accept that then the easier it gets. Right?”

Ignis didn’t know if Gladio was looking to make Ignis feel better, or if he was hoping Ignis would confirm his theory.

“Right,” Ignis had answered quietly, speaking into his tea.

#

The third meeting of the day was with King Regis. Ignis had tried to cancel his other appointments so that all his focus could be on His Majesty, but King Regis would hear none of it. He insisted that nothing had to be changed and, in fact, seemed quite happy to be left until the end of the day.

His intention was to be treated like anyone else in the Citadel looking for Ignis’ time and counsel but instead he just made it so that Ignis found it difficult to concentrate on what he was meant to be doing in his other meetings. It was hardly the King’s fault; he was, at his core, a humble man and he had no idea what kind of disruption he could cause by trying to avoid it. It didn’t frustrate Ignis. If anything, it only served to bolster Ignis’ admiration for his monarch.

Ignis stepped into the King’s private office late in the day, early in the evening. The sun was setting and Ignis knew from experience that the evenings were harder on the King than he liked. The strain of keeping the Wall operating against the hordes of daemons as the sun set always hit him like a wave crashing against the rocks, slowly wearing them away.

Ignis should have canceled the other meetings without telling the King. He cursed himself privately as he sat in the chair offered by King Regis.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Ignis.”

“It is my honor, Your Majesty.”

King Regis waved his hand, dismissing the formality tiredly. “I will be brief, since I’d like to get your feelings on the matter before moving forward,” he said, though he paused to take a moment, looking out the window onto Insomnia below. “I have received news from Tenebrae which…”

He hesitated again. Ignis leaned forward, hoping to help coax it out of the King without speaking straight away. King Regis only acted like this occasionally. Ignis could never predict it 100% of the time, but King Regis could be guaranteed to be distracted and moribund on certain dates such as his own wedding anniversary, or the Stolen Prince’s birthday. Those were easy to accommodate for. Everyone could see those dates coming, and knew them well. It was the random waxing and waning of the King’s moods that was difficult to predict.

Ignis had learned early in his career that the trick was not to predict the moods and avoid them, but to accept them when they arrived and to stay with the King as he needed. It was an unspoken understanding and appreciation between them, and Ignis treasured it.

“Tenebrae hasn’t been in contact with us officially in quite some time, Majesty. I’m glad that they reached out to you. Perhaps we can once again entertain the idea of a diplomatic exchange? They are an easy bridge towards peace with Niflheim, after all…”

King Regis looked up and smiled at Ignis. “Correct as ever, Ignis, but I’m afraid the information I received had little to do with international relationships. I am sorry to break your flow,” he said and, though he was amused by Ignis’ enthusiasm for politics and diplomacy, he seemed genuine enough. Ignis quietened. “No, it was not an emissary of peace who contacted me. It was the Oracle.”

Ignis did not answer. What would one say to that? As far as he knew, the Oracle was busy healing the sick and spouting prayers in the face of the starvation of Tenebrae, and certainly not on speaking terms with the Last King of Lucis.

“She wrote to me with a location, and I will be taking a team of soldiers to confirm her visions,” King Regis continued. “She spoke to me of my son, Ignis. His location. We will have him back in Lucis within the week.”

The King paused to give Ignis some time to come to terms with that statement, but had the decency not to expect a coherent response. Once they had shared that moment of silence, he kept talking.

“I’ve already spoken to Gladiolus, who will be with me when we find Noctis again. I hope to instate Gladiolus in his post as my son’s Shield without any hesitation,” he told Ignis, direct and to the point. Ignis had always liked that about the King. Neither of them had much patience for ambiguity. “I would like to offer you your intended position as my son’s chamberlain, should you desire it. I have no-one else as qualified or as trusted as you are, Ignis, but I will respect your decision if you want to continue with your current duties.”

Ignis made at least a bit of a show out of considering his two options — but they both knew what Ignis was going to say. True, it had been years since his training as a chamberlain to a prince. True, his role within the walls of the Citadel had changed from the original description of his duties back when his parents had signed his contract. That altered nothing, however, in this case. It certainly held no sway over Ignis’ loyalty to the Crown of Lucis and, specifically, to King Regis himself.

He shook his head. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid pledging myself to that role is the easy part,” he answered seriously. “If you’ll permit me a few questions?” King Regis nodded and gestured for Ignis to continue. “Thank you. Firstly, I simply must confirm what you’ve said. You’ve long held that the Prince lives, and I have always believed your _conviction_ , but — forgive me, Your Majesty —”

“Ignis, it’s fine. I know how it sounds,” King Regis said tiredly, though with a smile. He opened a drawer in his desk and produced a letter, one with a broken syllablossom seal. “Please read the letter for yourself.”

He did, of course, but it proved nothing. Ignis’ only worry after reading the Oracle’s words was that they had a mole within their walls and an enemy of the Crown knew the best way to get the King out in the open.

He looked up from the supposed good news and saw real hope, real happiness in King Regis’ eyes. Rarer than mythril.

Ignis was often called cold, unfeeling. Like the knives he carried, as uncaring as sharpened steel. He found it difficult to argue with these assessments most of the time, but he knew that he cared about some things.

He cared about Gladiolus, his friend, and therefore he cared about the wellbeing of the Amicitia family.

He cared about his career — and though he knew that some would consider that more proof that he was cold and emotionless, Ignis would argue that they obviously didn’t comprehend the importance of his career.

He cared deeply about King Regis, who had always been kind to Ignis. Their relationship was not overly close and he was not on the same level of confidence of Gladio and his family, of course, but the king would always squeeze Ignis’ shoulder whenever he passed him in the hallway, whenever Ignis was bowing or saluting. He called Ignis by his first name, and not his family name. He recommended Ignis, by name, to his advisers.

Ignis cared about that look of hope on King Regis’ face. He would not break it.

He handed the letter back to his king. “Though I urge you to tread with caution, Your Majesty,” he started, “this is heartening. I am pleased that you have received such good news.”

King Regis smiled until his eyes crinkled. “Your words are carefully weighted. I can see that you still believe this to be a fool’s errand, Ignis,” he said, and gave Ignis no chance to protest. “And I understand why you would choose to be cautious around a king you suspect may have gone mad with grief—”

Ignis, stricken, interrupted the king. “No, Your Majesty—”

King Regis lifted a hand to hush him. It worked, of course. “Neither of us are fools, Ignis, and this is not an errand for one. I look forward to seeing you flourish as my son’s chamberlain.”

Ignis stayed where he stood. He was worried that… “Your Majesty, if I have offended you,” he began, but the king cut him off again.

“Quite the contrary,” he answered. The tired lines of his face didn’t go away but they softened, somehow, as he spoke. “I expect you to employ more of your trademark bluntness when my son arrives, however. No more of this careful diplomacy. Both he and I will soon be surrounded by yes-men. I am relying on you and Gladiolus to maintain a steady course for Noctis. Do you agree?”

“I do.” There was no question, if that was to be Ignis’ fate. If the king was correct. If the Oracle was true, and correct. If, if, if.

“I know you will make me proud, Ignis.”

Ignis hoped that, one day, that could be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild chapter appears!   
> More setup, more backstory. Eventually Noctis will get to actually spend time with his retinue but today is not that day.   
> Thank you for everyone who has read and kudos'd and commented!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis' arrival.

He used to have these dreams, sort of like nightmares, where he was in a big wide space, a plaza, in an impossible city. There was a giant building in front of him — or maybe it was behind him — and he was just fighting mindlessly from dawn until dusk. He was fighting daemons for hours and hours, never getting hurt enough for it to matter, and the sunlight didn’t seem to bother them. 

He never got tired. They never got tired. He warped from post to post. He never left the paved spot in front of the building even though he could see the city beyond the gates around it. He just fought. 

Sometimes there was a voice. Soft and friendly. Telling him to keep going. 

Noctis never really thought about it. It was just a dream that happened. Whenever he talked to Uncle about his dreams he got too much attention, like they held some weight. There would be sessions of questions after questions, his uncle exploring every angle of Noctis’ dreams until he was satisfied with the answers. Noctis knew, and how could he not, that it was all because he was part of the gods’ plans but — after a few times of that happening Noctis just… stopped bringing his dreams up in conversation. He felt bad about it, especially when he saw Uncle Ardyn struggle with whether or not to tell Noctis the truth whenever he asked awkward questions. _No lies in this family_ , Uncle always said and yet there was Noctis; keeping the truth from his uncle after every dream he remembered.

Most of the time he ignored his dreams. It was easier. He couldn’t make sense of a lot of what he saw a lot of the time. Blue light. Blonde hair. Freckles. An eagle. A coeurl. Ice. Not everything could be important. He had to ignore it because he know that he would obsess. He knew just how dangerous obsession could be; his uncle was always quick to teach that lesson. 

But this was something he couldn’t ignore. 

He and Uncle were put into a car that was big enough to have four seats, facing each other, in the back. The King, Noctis’ father, sat in the front with the driver. One of the soldiers who searched the house sat in front of Noctis and Uncle Ardyn. Another soldier, this one older than the other, sat with him. Both of them watched Uncle like hawks. 

Smart, Noctis supposes. He knows that he treats his uncle like a harmless kitten most of the time but that’s only because Noctis knows him so well. He also knows that if Uncle Ardyn wanted to hurt anyone in this car then they would be hurt already. Their continued existence persists based on his whims. It’s funny, sort of, in an Uncle Ardyn kind of way. = 

The trip is long, and is made in total silence. Not a single smart comment from Uncle is made, which is pretty impressive. It’s lulling. Noctis even catches himself from sleeping a few times during the day. It would be stupid, right? To fall asleep in the supposed belly of the beast. 

It’s really hard though. They drive and drive for days. Countryside and towns fly past the window. Uncle really did everything he could have done to make sure that both of them were nearly impossible to find. Eventually, even after those silent days spend traveling, the countryside gives way to city. And then even more city. Bridges and buildings nearly as tall as nightmares, and lights everywhere. Noctis tries to watch the lights go by, but he’s too sleepy to keep up. There are too many of them. 

He swears he’s falling asleep again when they start to slow down. He looks out the window when one of the soldiers says that they’ve arrived but… 

It’s just the tall building with all the goblins outside it again. Noctis is asleep, he decides, and doesn’t move to rouse himself. There’s no point and this dream always end in a fight. Noctis is in no mood for fighting right now. It’s only when Uncle puts a hand on his arm that he snaps out of it. 

“What was that sigh for? You do realise that it may be a tad too late for second thoughts,” he says, eyes searching for any distress on Noctis’ face — and that’s when Noctis knows that it’s real. There’s never anyone else but him and the little voice in his dreams. 

“What?” Noctis blinks himself back into proper wakefulness. “No, it’s not that. I just—” He looks out of the car again. “I know this place.” 

The soldiers exchange looks. Even Uncle Ardyn looks concerned. “That’s impossible, child. You haven’t been back here in years. I saw to that,” he admits without his usual air of superiority. It’s merely a fact of life. Something that he did. 

“No, I know that,” Noctis mutters. An attendant comes to direct all the cars down a hill, under the building itself. They’re not using the front doors, Noctis guesses. “I meant only that — I don’t know, Uncle. I suppose I dreamed of it.” 

“Well,” Uncle says, patting Noctis’ arm a bit harder than he normally would before letting him go. His disappointment is obvious as his quick mind works out that Noctis had been keeping things from him. Great. He’s going sulk over that for weeks. “I would have suggested you keep that to yourself until we were in a more secure location, and alone, but that opportunity has gone right out the window.” He nods his head at the soldiers, who are still watching closely. 

“We could ask them to keep it to themselves?” Noctis suggests. A joke, of course, but it might still work out in their favour. He doesn’t consider himself lucky, not with everything that has happened in his life and with everything that threatens to happen in his future, but Noctis has noticed that he does tend to get his way with people. He looks at the younger soldier. The king had called him Gladiolus. “You don’t have to tell anyone about all that dream stuff, right?” 

There’s this wonderful, hopeful second where the younger soldier looks at the older one, and he obviously seriously considers keeping the secret, but that moment is shattered quickly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the older one scolds, though his disappointed tone is fully trained solely on Gladiolus. “Of course we’ll tell King Regis. He’ll be overjoyed to hear something like that. The Prince dreaming of home.” 

“Dreaming of someone’s home, anyway,” Noctis mutters. They’re in some kind of underground road now, a tunnel, underneath the giant building. He’d be worried but Uncle doesn’t seem too fussed so there’s no sense in getting anxious. “There were always daemons all over the place in my dreams. It’s not like I dreamed of some happy homecoming like you’re no doubt picturing.” 

“What kind of daemons?” Gladiolus asks. His voice is rough and gravelly, but he can’t be much older than Noctis. He’s either putting on that voice or he’s just made like that. Who knows. Mostly, Noctis finds that he’s a little upset that they’re talking now instead of when they were traveling for days in silence. They could have filled that uncomfortable trip with conversation. 

“Goblins,” Noctis answers flatly. He doesn’t care about telling them now. The details don’t matter. “And they didn’t mind the sun, either. They’d swarm for hours and hours and I would just keep fighting them. There was never any other point to the dream; just that.” 

Uncle Ardyn, who never found himself under any threat from daemons, snorts softly. Noctis shoots him a fond kind of smile. The soldiers shift uneasily. 

#

There are skulls everywhere. 

They aren’t real skulls — or, at the very least, Noctis hasn’t found where they keep the real skulls. The skulls are, instead, inlaid in all the decorations of the Lucian royal home. Tapestries and columns and paintings. Even the banisters of stairs have tiny skulls carved into the marble. What kind of people are the Lucians that they proudly, happily, cover their highest office in images of death? Is that the kind of person King Regis is? Is it the kind of person Noctis is, at his core? 

The younger soldier, Gladiolus, stays with him and Uncle Ardyn when they get out of the car and part ways with the king. They make plans for dinner, the king essentially spends his whole time reminding Ardyn that he is an enemy of the state, and they’re told to follow the soldier to their quarters. 

They leave only one soldier with them. That’s… “Hey, isn’t this a little stupid?” Noctis pipes up, talking to the soldier. 

“Huh? What is it?” Gladiolus takes a breath at the end of the question, an empty space for a name or title, and it’s probably more out of habit than anything else. For the best since Noctis isn’t sure how he would respond to any royal title, but he’s fascinated by how he could tell, by how obvious it was, all the same. 

“Well, all of this. You, and us,” Noctis continues. He presses a palm to his chest and nods at his uncle. “The king just left you alone with both of us? Isn’t that reckless of the crown?”

Gladiolus gives Noctis a confused look. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.” 

“He means that it seems uniquely stupid to leave only one soldier to defend the Stolen Prince from a possible second attack from the Adagium,” Ardyn translates in a lazy drawl. “Or perhaps I have turned him against his people? You would have to battle the both of us. Hardly seems fair, does it?”

Noctis rolls his eyes at his uncle’s drama. “Yeah, something like that. It just doesn’t make sense to send a group of soldiers to our door to take me and then, once we’re here, leave us with just you and no-one else.” 

“Oh,” Gladiolus grins, rubbing his jaw. “I getcha. Well, I figure His Majesty isn’t going to let you out of his sight now so there are probably one and a half million cameras on any entrance or exit routes, not to mention a secret guard or glaive dotted around the place.” 

One million and a half cameras. Noctis looks around him like he’ll be able to suddenly see them. He can’t. That’s worse, somehow. 

“And if you’re looking to fight with me then it’s going to be better sooner than later. I’m going to be part of your training regime anyway,” the soldier keeps going, still smiling. He’s at ease in the Citadel, and nearly friendly, unlike his almost sullen silence in the car. “You better get used to seeing me, too, because I’m your Shield. Where you go, I go.” 

Ardyn makes a small sound in the back of his throat that Noctis can’t interpret, and so doesn’t waster his time focusing on it. 

“What does that mean?” Noctis asks. He can guess; the soldier is a bodyguard, and he’ll follow Noctis around. So if it’s that simple then why not just say those words? Why all the — crap?

“You mean, what does me being a Shield mean?” Gladiolus asks. Noctis nods. “Okay, that’s simple. The Kings of Lucis always have a Shield. We’re there to protect our king. There’s more to it than that, and there are more expectations from us than just to be there to take a hit. We’re confidants. We’re… well, we were meant to be family. Your dad’s my godfather.” 

“No pressure,” Noctis says, glancing at his uncle for guidance. He finds no help on Ardyn’s features — which is just like him, really. Quiet when Noctis needs him to speak. “Well, I’m no king so I’m sorry about you getting this post for no reason from… my _dad_.” He shakes his head. “That’s so strange.” 

Gladiolus looks at Noctis while they walk, silent for a moment. “I guess it would be. But, for the record, he didn’t just give me a job. My family are Shields, just like your family are Kings. I was literally born to do this.” 

That information borders on too much to take in. What must that be like? Noctis grew up knowing his purpose, sure, and he knows what he’s supposed to be. That’s hardly different from what Gladiolus is talking about, but it feels like a world apart. 

“I’m no king,” is all he thinks to say, repeating himself.

“Not yet,” Gladiolus says. 

Ardyn hums, an amused noise, but he still doesn’t say anything. 

#

Gladiolus tells them that he’ll be standing outside the door until one of the glaives comes to relieve him of his post, but he insists that if Noctis needs to get in touch with him then he’ll be nearby. Bizarre, Noctis thinks, but he accepts the information all the same and nods when Gladiolus closes the door behind him. 

The first sight of the room is overwhelming. Skulls again, yes, but even if the first few hours of being in Insomnia Noctis has gotten used to seeing them already. There are three rooms to the space he’s been provided; a bedroom for himself, a living room, and a dining room to the side of it all. Huge windows look out into the city and Noctis thinks, wildly, that if they opened up at all then he and Ardyn could warp around the city and just take it in. 

The windows, obviously, don’t open. They’re prisoners. The cage is just impressively gilded. 

“They didn’t give you anywhere to sleep,” Noctis notes, gesturing to the only bed.

His uncle shrugs. “I sincerely doubt that they planned on me coming peacefully, or that you would want me in tow,” he says and, though Noctis might be wrong, he does seem a little pleased by how the situation has unfolded. “You needn’t worry, dear Noctis. I’ll make myself quite comfortable on the lounges provided. I only ask that you learn how to—” 

He points at the huge windows. It’s night now, but he’s right; as soon as the dawn comes then he’ll be in dire need of shade. There has to be curtains or some way to dim them. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Noctis promises. 

The evening is otherwise quiet, and Uncle Ardyn even mentions something about Noctis getting some sleep so that he is as alert as he can be for the morning, but after days of silence and travel Noctis feels restless. Besides, the evening is always the best time to pester his uncle for a story. 

“Tell me about Shields,” he sort of asks, and sort of demands. Ardyn raises an eyebrow at him and, when he doesn’t answer straight away, Noctis prompts him further. “Did you have one?”

“No. Not really,” Ardyn shakes his head. “I was not a king. My brother had the loyalty of a man, though. An old friend of mine called Gilgamesh. I believe that he, eventually, became named Shield to the Founder Kind of Lucis.” He looks away from Noctis, then, and out onto the city. 

It must be strange for his uncle to be back here, thinking about his brother. Not flying off into a rage, like he used to. The years have not softened the man, for all that he is a man, but Noctis knows that the years have certainly mellowed his uncle. Even here, he seems calmer he should be. 

“That one that said that he’s my Shield, now. He said that his family are tasked with the title, like ours,” Noctis reminds Ardyn. Very slowly, his uncle turns to face him and it seems that, perhaps, Noctis had been wrong about his uncle’s calm. A storm sits behind his bright eyes. 

“Like yours, my boy. Your family is tasked with your burden, and your titles,” Uncle Ardyn corrects softly. It’s the first time in a long time that Noctis has heard his uncle widen the gap between them, and their roles in the great cosmic game they find themselves in. He’s usually only too happy to keep close to Noctis, bound in the prophecy as well as by distant blood. 

Things are different already between then, and it happened so quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks for everyone who's read and enjoyed this fic. Soon enough things are going to have to get real for Noct. Maybe not right now, though.


End file.
